Credit Cards and Concussions
by starry19
Summary: "She must've been distracted, he figured. Otherwise there was no way that she would have left him unsupervised in her apartment. Free to wander and roam and discover. He felt few scruples about it. It probably made him a sociopath, but this was a goldmine. "


**AN**: A (somewhat belated) birthday gift for the lovely MleeWrite. Let's all take a moment to squee collectively because she's back to writing.

Also, I wrote this in 45 minutes, so you're not allowed to dislike it. Just kidding. But seriously. And remember my rule about stories that are presents – I don't have to apologize if they're behaving a little oddly!

10 days until we know who Red John is!

**Credit Cards and Concussions**

There were times, he reflected, that doing what he was told had unexpectedly good outcomes.

He hadn't precisely been doing what he was told the night he sustained four cracked ribs and a mild concussion. Actually, if he was being honest, he had been doing about the exact opposite.

_Stay in the car, Jane. I don't want you in the way._

It wasn't the first time he had heard those words; he doubted very much that it would be the last. But curiosity had gotten the better of him (again), and he had found himself creeping towards the side of the darkened house the team was getting ready to raid. He had created a profile of the suspect they were after, and vanity demanded to know he was right.

When the side door came crashing open, he was suddenly reminded he was _not_ a trained police officer. If he was, he would have heard the tell-tale signs and probably moved out of the way. As it was, he was hit full-on by the metal door, being flung aside by a very large, very muscular man with an unbelievable amount of force.

To add insult to injury, his momentum threw him on the ground in the suspect's path where he was unceremoniously stomped on.

He hadn't managed to catch his breath enough to move before Lisbon found him.

"Jesus, Jane," she hissed, kneeling at his side. "Are you okay?"

Well, that was a stupid question. His head had bounced off of a door, as had the rest of him, and it felt like he had been run over by a stampeding yak.

Also, he was fairly certain his suit was ruined.

He wanted to tell Lisbon all of these things, but the most he managed was some sort of pathetic groan and some mild eye-rolling.

One ambulance ride later, he was resting on a rather uncomfortable hospital bed, watching the beeping monitors that measured his heart rate. Just to amuse himself, he tried to mentally alter his vital signs, but after the third time the nurses came rushing to his side, he decided he'd better quit or they would start doing exploratory surgery.

He hated hospitals. Where was Lisbon, anyway? Or Cho or Rigsby or Van Pelt? Shouldn't someone be checking on him? Or getting him the hell out of here?

When Lisbon (finally) made her appearance, eternal cup of coffee in her left hand, he fixed her with the wounded look he had been practicing for the last hour.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, voice soft. He could tell, however, that she really, really wanted to say _I told you so_. And probably call him a jackass.

"Why, Lisbon, I'm glad you care," he said, purposely sounded much more injured than he was. "I wasn't sure anyone even remembered I was here."

She raised one eyebrow. "Oh, we all remembered, Jane. We were just a little busy with the suspect we caught in our raid. You know, the one I told you to stay in the car at?" Her gentle bedside manner was rapidly deteriorating, and he tried to find a way to bring her back.

He acted like he was going to try and sit up, letting his face contort in pain as he moved. To his displeasure, he discovered that not all of it was an act. Maybe he should ask for some better painkillers.

But it worked. Saint Teresa was at his side in a second, hand on his shoulder, carefully easing him back to the slab of concrete that served for a mattress. "Slow down, Jane," she said. "You need to take it easy."

He arranged his features into the perfect combination of weary and helpless. "I want to get out of here."

Absently, she pushed his hair out of his face while she thought his request over. He didn't think she was even aware she was doing it.

He certainly was though. Blisteringly aware, really, of the softness of her fingers as they ran over his scalp.

"Let me go talk to the doctor," she finally acquiesced. "We'll see what he has to say."

As soon as she left the room, he crossed and uncrossed his ankles in impatience. God, he really did hurt, though. He should have sent Lisbon for more drugs.

It seemed like hours, but in reality it was probably no more than fifteen minutes before she was back, a nurse trailing in her wake.

"Doctor says you can go," she said without preamble, "but he says you can't stay by yourself. He wants someone to wake you up every couple of hours, just to be on the safe side." She took a breath. "I said I'd take responsibility for you tonight, so you're being discharged as we speak."

He blinked. Interesting turn of events. Apparently, he was going to be sleeping on Lisbon's couch tonight. He wondered _what_ couch. Would they go back to the office where she could catch up on more ridiculous paperwork? Or would she call it a night and let him curl up in her living room?

The second option was infinitely more appealing. Although her office was nice when he wanted to be close to her during the day and when he wanted to _feel_ close to her at night, her own personal living space was much more attractive.

In another half hour, he was being wheeled out, despite his protests that he could walk just fine. It was policy, apparently, and besides, he admitted to himself that it was probably for the best. No one should be walking very far with cracked ribs.

Lisbon kept shooting him worried glances as she drove. So often, in fact, that he became distinctly worried that she was going to drive them off the road. It was with great relief that he saw her apartment building come into view.

Getting himself settled on her couch was more painful than he would have liked to admit. His reward was being tucked in underneath a Chicago Bears blanket that smelled like Lisbon's shampoo.

As it turned out, he didn't particularly enjoy being woken up every three hours, but he did get to see Lisbon in her pajamas, hair falling messily around her shoulders, which sort of made up for the whole thing.

He was off work the next day, per the doctor's (and Lisbon's) orders. She left him sleeping, the aroma of recently brewed coffee his only clue that she had been there and gone.

She must've been distracted, he figured. Otherwise there was no way that she would have left him unsupervised in her apartment. Free to wander and roam and discover.

He felt few scruples about it. It probably made him a sociopath, but this was a goldmine.

Her kitchen was small, the cupboards neatly organized. She had an unreasonably large collection of travel mugs.

The desk was covered in mail that had been hastily opened then tossed aside. Electric bills, car payments, things he expected to find. However, there was a bright pink envelope that contained a statement for a Victoria's Secret credit card. He felt his pulse tick up a notch. Now _that_ was an interesting discovery. And one that did things to his imagination. Very detailed things.

Pushing back from the desk, he started to wander upstairs, the pain in his ribs making his progress slow.

He spent far too long looking in her bathroom. A bottle of multivitamins, a curling iron, several kinds of perfume. He sniffed each one, noting that there were a few he had never noticed on her. They were definitely _date_ scents. Selfishly, he noted that those bottles were mostly full.

There were a few moments when he considered leaving her bedroom untouched. But, no, he had come this far, and his burning curiosity was not about to be quenched if he didn't at least look.

He had never been here before, not even when he laid in wait for her psychologist to show up and give himself away.

The bed was unmade, which was unsurprising. She had chosen an ivory comforter, something neutral, like the cream colored furniture downstairs. The sheets, in stark contrast, were red.

His pulse rose another notch.

Needing to do _something_ other than stare at the rumpled covers, he turned towards the open closet. Suit jacket, suit jacket, suit jacket, leather coat, button down shirt.

There was a dress at the very back, hidden behind her predictably staid wardrobe. The black silk material slid easily though his fingers. His eyes almost bulged out of his head.

Surely, this must have been a gift from someone. He had great difficulty picturing her buying this…this _thing_. A hot date piece if he'd ever seen one. He pulled it completely off the hanger, then almost smiled as he saw the tags were still attached.

Maybe she did buy this herself on a rare whim. And even if she'd never worn it, she couldn't bear to get rid of it.

Frowning now, he examined the garment closer. It made him a little sad – she'd bought this intending to knock someone's socks off, and here it was, stuffed in the back of her closet. He was probably the first person that had even seen it, besides Lisbon herself.

Perhaps he should remedy that.

That would be a particularly treacherous conversation. _Let's go out to dinner tonight. Wear that incredibly sexy dress I found in your closet. Make sure you're also wearing the lingerie I know you bought. _

He felt the urge to run a hand down his face, and he forced away any comment about those red sheets.

All of this was very dangerous territory. He needed to find some solid ground in this place.

He turned towards her dresser, then blindly opened the small jewelry box he found there. Now this was more typical – a watch, a few necklaces that looked as though they had belonged to her mother, some antique rosary beads.

And underneath those things, tucked safely away, was the paper frog he had made her years ago.

His heart gave a funny sort of beat.

Unexpectedly, this was the most unsettling thing he had found so far.

Distracted now, he sat on the edge of the bed, frog held gently in his hand. He had made it as a gesture of goodwill after pissing her off particularly badly, and the smile he'd won from it had been its own reward.

But that had been forever ago. Before Las Vegas, before some of the worse lies he had told her.

Still thinking hard, he leaned back against the pillows. She had kept this small token from him. Now that he really thought it out, it was one of the only tangible things he had ever given her. The emerald necklace she had returned, the pony had gone to an orphanage.

It bothered him…that this quickly made trinket, created out of printer paper, was the only thing she had to remember him by.

It seemed wrong, somehow, that after ten years, _this_ was it.

He swung his feet onto her bed, ignoring his ribs.

Her room was warm, quiet. Combined with the painkillers he had popped when he woke, it took him all of five minutes to fall asleep.

The next thing he knew, he was being rudely shaken by someone who sounded very annoyed.

"Do you mind telling me what the hell you're doing?" Lisbon demanded, leaning over him in a menacing fashion.

Her cheeks were flushed, but he didn't think it was all from anger. He realized he was still holding the paper frog.

He offered her a sleepy smile. "I was taking it easy, just like I was supposed to."

Lisbon's eyebrows rose so high they were in danger of disappearing into her hair. "Funny," she bit off, "it looks a lot like you were going through things you shouldn't have been."

She was adorable when she was mad at him.

He blinked.

Perhaps the painkillers were stronger than he thought.

He patted the space next to him. "Sit down, woman. I want to have a conversation with you."

"No," she replied immediately. "If you want to talk, we can do it downstairs."

Gingerly, he touched his chest, infused his voice with the right amount of pain. "I have cracked ribs, Lisbon. Please don't make me move."

She eyed him suspiciously. Then, looking as though this was very much against her better judgment, she sat lightly on the mattress.

He held up the frog, and the flush on her cheeks deepened. "You kept it," he said. "Tell me why."

She looked away. "Jane," she began, but trailed off, eyes fixed on the door.

Carefully, he reached for her hand. She was radiating tension. "Tell me why," he said again.

There was a long pause, and he wondered if she would refuse to answer. Then she let out a deep breath. "Because," she finally said, sounding embarrassed. "Because it reminds me…" She sighed again. "It reminds me of you," she whispered hopelessly. "Of the _you_ you sometimes are. And there are times I need to remember that that person exists."

Especially lately, he imagined.

Sad again, he brought her knuckles to her lips.

"Thank you," he said eventually, "for not giving up on me. I think I need to remember who that person is sometimes, too."

She squeezed his fingers lightly. "I'll be happy to remind you whenever you forget," she said quietly.

He smiled. "How?" he asked. "Are you going to start making me frogs?"

She laughed. "If that's what it takes."

Her capacity for mercy really knew no bounds, at least when it came to him. He was absolutely undeserving of it all, but it didn't change anything.

Saint Teresa. With a dress that would make the pope look twice.

Maybe it was time to give her something else to remember him by.

He pulled on her hand until she was looking at him fully. Then he slid his free hand up to the back of her head, tugging gently.

He could see the moment when she fully realized what was going to happen. Her pupils dilated, breath caught in her throat. He paused, lips half an inch from hers, making sure she had all the time in the world to pull away.

But then she leaned down those last, crucial millimeters, carefully holding herself above his battered chest, fingers pressed against his cheek.

Her lips were sweet and soft and tender, a little unsure, but decidedly welcoming.

He held himself in check, parting her lips just a fraction, just enough to for her to understand what was under the surface of his control.

She was the one who pulled away, one hand on his shoulder for leverage.

"Mm," he murmured, smiling. "Am I still in trouble?"

"That depends on what else you found," she replied.

He chuckled, pushing her tumbling hair behind her ear. "Naturally, I discovered all of your deepest, darkest secrets, my dear. I just hope I can keep them all to myself."

He meant that. The dress. The Victoria's Secret inventory. He definitely wanted to keep them all to himself.

Not to mention the red sheets he was currently laying on.

Her hand flattened against his shoulder, pushing down, and she leaned over him again. "I'll show you deep, dark secrets," she said, voice low.

And, even managing to take his injured ribs into account, she certainly did.

Yes, he decided, it had definitely been a good idea, following doctor's orders to take it easy. True, this probably hadn't been what the man had in mind, but if you wanted to get technical, he _had _stayed in bed.

Maybe doctors' advice wasn't all bad.

As Lisbon ran her hands through his hair again, he thought that, in the future, he would give medical professionals the benefit of the doubt.

And then he stopped thinking altogether.


End file.
